


Leading Refrains

by elegantanagram (Lir)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Albino Dave, M/M, POV Second Person, Pre-Relationship, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-29
Updated: 2012-06-29
Packaged: 2017-11-08 20:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lir/pseuds/elegantanagram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Music is the cure for what ails you. It is a philosophy Mr. Egbert, wealthy businessman and father to one teenage son, can subscribe to, and it is a tactic he can use when acclimating a new addition to his household. Dave Strider may not integrate easily into said Egbert household, but an impromptu piano lesson from the Egbert senior goes a ways in putting Dave at ease.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leading Refrains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FastPuck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FastPuck/gifts).



> I just find [Puck's art](http://fastpuck.tumblr.com/post/25989148501/rich-suave-businessman-takes-in-young-albino) endlessly tempting and cannot resist composing literary accompaniments. 
> 
> The fact that Dave is albino became little more than a side note, and John is a hovering bridge between Dad and Dave rather than a concrete presence. 
> 
> I just needed to depict Dad taking in a destitute Dave and the two of them learning to function in relation to one another.

You sit down at the piano with legs faintly splayed, rolling your shoulders and flexing the fingers of both hands. Once upon a time, you were a frequent occupant of that very bench, coaxing delicate music out of the baby grand's ivory keys. Now, your work keeps you away from your old lady love, although you trust she will not slight you when she has fallen desperately into the arms - and nimble fingers - of your teenage son. 

The long separation aside, muscle memory kicks in at the first touch of fingers to keys, your hands dancing across and depressing them with precision. You may be rusty, but the action of playing is soothing. The creation of music consumes you. It does not, however, absorb your attention to the exclusion of all else, and you hear him the moment he comes to stand behind you. It is a sixth sense almost more than it is proper hearing, stealthy and soft-footed as David is.

You continue playing, tuned distinctly to the presence of your ward ghosting behind you. He near enough resembles such an apparition, pale like some nocturnal creature. He's hovering. When he gets it into his head he is foul-mouthed fire, and though you chide him for his language without exception, you appreciate that particular passion. It's preferable to his moments of aloofness, holding himself apart in a way you think means he is still not entirely comfortable in your home.

You finish with the song you were playing, hands stilling against the keys.

"Good evening, David," you say, leaning back and tilting your face up, but not enough to get a very good look at him. 

"I didn't know you played," David says back, by way of answer.

It's borderline rude, and you consider reprimanding him for his brusque manner, but instead you refrain.

"I consider myself to be adequately filled with surprises," you tell him.

The smile you offer him, turning your upper body over the bench to face him directly, verges on the conspiratorial. You can't help it. Your son's pranksterism isn't entirely a unique feature; you have a sense of humor of your own and you have every intention of inviting David to share in it.

"I thought that was John's gimmick. Are you telling me mini Egbert's just emulating the original? C'mon pops, your facsimile needs a little more freedom. Gotta let him grow up and spawn his own interests someday, fly free from the nest."

"I want John to be able to do the things that make him happiest. I make no efforts to police his hobbies."

You suspect that David does not truly wish to talk about John at present, although poking fun at John's interests and mannerisms seems to be his way of getting along with your son.

"You're pretty good, huh? I thought John was better at first, but he's been practicing. You're dusting the rust off?"

"I'm not a bad hand if I do say so myself," you demure, with a modicum of modesty.

David fidgets slightly, rotating one shoulder and letting his head shrink down. It's subtle. He wants something.

You want something.

You slide the bench out, easing it back slow, and pivot your entire body towards him. 

"I could show you how to play."

He perks up, like an interested cat, all overblown show of disinterest assumed far too slow. You saw the genuine curiosity before he could downplay it. You pat your lap in invitation, and even that beckoning does not trip him up.

He settles back against you, shifting his rear against your thighs, and you edge in the bench until you are both a comfortable playing distance from the keys. As he nudges up against you, for a moment he seems distinctly smug.

"Put your hands on mine."

Your arms are reached around him, enabling your hands to once again reach the keys. It's disingenuous, because this is not the tactic you would choose first in giving just anyone a lesson. But he presses back against you casually even as his arms stretch forward to join yours. His head rests against your shoulder, the pale halo of his hair brushing up against the skin of your neck. His fingers curl against your hands.

You lead him through a fairly simple song - again, more challenging than you might select for proper teaching, but uncomplicated enough that his hands can follow yours, like guiding the indicator for an Ouija board. You spell out messages with your slowly traveling fingers, less mysterious than the jumbled messages of spirits, but in their own way more cryptic. His touch is dry and light atop yours, fingers descending faintly in echoes of your motions.

Every so often he shifts minutely in your lap, but the drape of his hands does not change. The exercise is at once comfortable and maddening. You can share this peaceful interlude with him, can de-stress from work in near-solitude, and it is not how you would spend time with John. It should not be different, and yet it is.

You finish the song. 

"Place your hands on the keys," you direct him, slipping your hands free from the weight of his when he lessens the contact. 

Your hands and his trade positions, like coached dancers executing a turn in sequence. Slowly, he begins picking out the melody you have just played for him, the fact that he is not completely untaught coming as little surprise. You already believed he had some ability. Your hands are the shadows now, resting over his, guiding his fingers to the proper keys when your meager demonstration proves insufficient. He tilts his head to look back at you once, and his face is lightly flushed. 

You feel your features filtering into fondness. There's pride there, too, pride in being able to teach and in his ability to learn. It is not entirely a fatherly pride. Again, you finish the song. 

"You're some kinda teacher, papa Egbert," David tells you. 

It's ribbing, of the same variety David best likes to employ with your son, the balance of sincerity and sarcasm difficult to deduce in exact measure. It should not be so satisfying to hear. 

It is exactly that. 

You take your hands away from David's, and he falls to stroking his fingers lightly up and down the keys, but does not make any effort to move from his perch atop your lap. You should not encourage him to stay; you should not have invited him to sit in your lap like a child much younger than his age in the first place. But you do not want to let him up. 

"I could play you another song," you offer. 

It's doting. This time, it's hardly fatherly at all. But it's such a simple thing, an unvarnished offer to make music and entertain your newly-acquired ward.

It is unsurprising when he accepts.


End file.
